


A Dire Situation

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2017 [15]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Septicaemia / Infected Wound, Worry, tim is a good brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:37:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Damian and Tim are kidnapped. That would be fine if it was the only problem they had…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the "septicaemia / infected wound" square on my hurt/comfort bingo card.

Tim finally slips out of the rope binding his wrists and starts massaging his hands to work feeling back into them. He can hear their captors outside the room they’re locked in, talking and laughing, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. His focus is solely on his little brother.

Damian is curled up on the floor where the kidnappers had tossed him carelessly, knees up to his chest and shoulders awkwardly pulled back from the ropes binding his arms behind his back. Tim hurts just looking at him, but he knows his brother is nursing a knife wound from last night and his empathetic pain is nothing compared to what Damian must be feeling. Not that he’s admitted that. 

Not that he has to; the unusual quietness and lack of escape attempts is more than enough.

“Damian?” he calls softly, tapping Damian’s flushed cheek and frowning when hazy brown eyes only open the barest slit. He presses the back of his hand to Damian’s forehead and the frown deepens. He’s much too warm. That’s not good. Really not good.

“Drake…” Damian slurs, pushing his head into the touch. “Don’ feel so good anymore.”

Tim runs his fingers through sweat-dampened hair. It’s a worrying change of tune from Damian insisting he was fine earlier. Almost as worrying as the silence and the stillness had been. Tim hadn’t been sure whether he was unconscious, whether he’d been hit on the head when they were grabbed, whether the patch of red on his shirt had been from his stitches tearing or something else. He definitely hadn’t factored being sick into his increasingly panicked wonderings.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well earlier?” he asks, not sure whether he should be more concerned or irritated. Maybe if Damian had admitted he wasn’t feeling well this morning they wouldn’t have left the Manor and then they wouldn’t have been snatched off the streets by kidnappers. Maybe Damian’s fever wouldn’t be so high either because he’d actually be resting instead of lying uncomfortably on the scratchy carpet of what looks like an abandoned office. 

There’s a bare desk pushed up against one wall, wooden boards nailed haphazardly across a grimy window and the remains of a dead pot-plant in the corner. Nothing that could really aid an escape, but no one has come to rescue them yet and Tim is getting antsy so he’s going to at least try find out where they’re being held and maybe get a message to one of the Bats or the GCPD. Especially now that his concern for his younger brother has been validated by the raging fever he has apparently got.

He starts tugging at the rope around Damian’s wrist to get it off. It’s more tightly tied than his was and simply working his fingers between the coils doesn’t loosen it enough to slip off. The knot is on the other side of Damian’s arm, between him and the floor, and Tim has to half-roll him forward to get to it and undo it.

Damian groans at the jostling and when Tim glances down at him, his eyes are drawn to the blood stain on his shirt which, he can see up close, is definitely getting bigger. He peels the shirt up now, wincing when it catches on dried blood. Damian whimpers and Tim mutters an apology. He hates to cause Damian more pain but he needs to know how bad the situation is. The skin around the laceration is hot and streaked with red, the wound itself sluggishly oozing blood and puss.

Shit. This is so much worse than Damian just being sick. 

Usually protocol for civilian kidnappings is to play nice and stay put until another Bat breaks you out, but protocol doesn’t take into account what looks like a pretty serious infection. Tim isn’t sure they have time to sit back and twiddle their thumbs while Bruce pretends to get the ransom and Nightwing or Batgirl tracks them down.

“‘S bad, isn’t it?” Damian asks. He doesn’t sound scared but he does sound incredibly young and with Damian that’s pretty much the same thing.

“Yeah,” Tim says because he can’t lie to him. Not with the gravity of the situation settling on his shoulders like dead weight. Not if this all gets even worse and it ends up being the last thing he does. That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try to be reassuring though. “But you’re going to be okay.”

Damian sniffs, screwing his eyes shut. “Hurts. Wanna go home.”

“I know, kiddo,” Tim murmurs. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

He’s reluctant to get up, to move even a few feet away from his brother, but he needs to check out the rest of the room. He needs to find a way for them to escape. They were knocked out with chloroform before the kidnappers brought them here, so he doesn’t know where exactly here is nor how long they’ve been here. Could have been anywhere from one hour to several by now, and the longer that time stretches the more Damian’s condition deteriorates. 

He stands up from his crouch and Damian whimpers, reaching out toward him. His words are high and panicky, a greater indication of how much the infection is affecting him than anything else. He doesn’t seem entirely aware of what’s going on as he pleads, “No, don’t leave, please, I’m sorry, don’t go.”

The voices outside the door get louder. Closer. Tim crouches back down. “Shhh,” he whispers. “I’m not leaving. Not without you. But I need to find us a way out, okay?”

The door slams open and Tim realised his mistake too late. Should have been paying more attention. Shouldn’t have let himself get distracted. He sits back, but he’s too far from the rope that had tied him up, it’s too obvious that he’s untied them both, if he had a few more seconds-

One of the kidnappers steps into the room. “Hey!” he snaps. “How the fuck did you get out of that rope?”

Tim is hauled up roughly and thrown toward the door as another man steps through. “Put him somewhere else,” the first one orders. “And knock him out or find some chains this time. We’ll use the other one for the video.”

“No!” Tim protests, struggling against the man hauling him out of the room. “No! Please, my brother, he’s sick, he needs medical att-“

A cloth is forced over his mouth. Tim snarls and scratches the arm holding it, but it only takes seconds before the chloroform hits him and everything goes dark. The last thing he hears is Damian’s cry of pain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally managed to kick writer's block in the ass long enough to write this.

Drake is gone.

Through the dizziness of being manhandled, the burning pain of being forced to sit, the monumental task of wrapping his tongue around the words the men force him to say, that’s the one thing Damian is aware of: Drake was here and now he’s gone. Now Damian is all alone.

They’d been walking down the street, going shopping, searching for… a present. It’s Grayson’s birthday next week. Damian hadn’t known what to get him. He’d paused in front of a hat shop, wondered how ridiculous Grayson would look in a fedora. He’d rested his hand against the glass, leaned his weight against it while Drake was distracted because he hadn’t been feeling well.

Had Drake noticed? Damian can’t remember; everything is hazy. But they’d gone down a side street, or a corridor, something with high walls that felt like they were closing in, and then...

And then they’d been grabbed.

Voices are droning on around him, harsh and deep, but every time it occurs to Damian to grasp onto the words, they slip away. Hands push him and pull him and it  _ hurts _ . God it hurts. His head is spinning and his stomach is turning and his eyes are stinging and-

He wants his father.

He wants Richard.

He even wants Drake.

—

Time is intangible and incomprehensible. Like a mystical being far above Damian is playing with his life like a child with a xylophone.  _ Ding _ and time speeds up, hurtling Damian through minutes or hours or even days like only seconds have passed.  _ Dong _ and time slows down, dragging Damian through seconds like they’re minutes or hours or even days. He doesn’t know what is when or when is what.

Drake was taken away between a  _ dong _ and a  _ ding _ . Damian has no idea how long he’s been gone, no idea where he’s gone, no idea if he’s coming back. Damian doesn’t know a lot of things. The things he does know are falling like sand through a sieve.

_ Think _ , a voice in his head commands. It sounds like his mother.  _ Focus. Remember your training _ .

Damian’s training feels like a distant relic, out of reach and blurry around the edges. He claws at it desperately, takes a deep breath and tries not to choke on the air, pushes aside fear and confusion and  _ don’ feel so good anymore.  _ He’s Robin. Son of Batman and Talia al Ghul. Heir to the demon’s head. Damian Wayne. He can think himself out of this situation. He  _ will _ think himself out of this situation. 

But if he can’t… Father will surely come, won’t he?

Maybe that’s why Drake is gone. Maybe father rescued him and he’ll be back for Damian. Or maybe Drake escaped. Maybe he’s gone to get father to show him where Damian is.

(Maybe… maybe he’s dead.)

—

_ The sand is hot. It whispers over his feet and scratches between his clothing. Damian swipes a hand across his forehead and grimaces at the sand sticking to his skin, caught there by sweat. And blood. So much blood. _

_ The golden landscape is painted with it. Like Pollock dipped a brush in red and splattered it across an otherwise picturesque scene. And then there’s the bit where it looks like someone tipped over the whole paint can, a pool of red staining the sand. Staining skin and cotton too, a person struggling to their feet in the middle of it. _

_ “Come on, gremlin,” Drake says, lips twisted mockingly. He entreats Damian forward with a mutilated hand, skin torn off to show jagged bone and dripping blood where half his fingers should be. “Is that all you’ve got?” _

_ Damian lifts his sword. It feels unbearable heavy in his hands. “No,” he says, but he can’t stop himself, can’t make his body obey his brain’s commands. “No, I don’t want to hurt you.” (Any more.) _

_ Drake’s face twists and Damian blinks and it’s not Drake anymore. _

_ “Well?” his mother whispers by his hear. “Didn’t I teach you to always finish what you start?” _

_ Scorching sunlight glints dully off the metal blade, tacky with browning blood. Damian’s own fingers are sticky, painted with the same sickening rivulets that run down his sword. He thinks it must be Drake’s blood. But he turns toward his mother, plea on his lips (I don’t want to do this, please give me another test, I’m sorry I disappointed you), and Father’s lifeless eyes stare back at him instead, hand pressed uselessly against the gaping wound in his chest. _

_ And from in front of him, Richard says, “I always knew you’d let me down, Dami, but like this?” He shakes his head and long strands of hair matted with blood flop over his brow. He doesn’t brush it aside, hands too busy trying vainly to put pressure on the many places his life is leaking out of his body.  _

_ “Oh for heaven’s sake-” Talia grabs the sword and Damian screams as it sinks through his abdomen. Weirdly, though, it’s only his side that hurts. _

_ Until the sword is thrust through Richard’s chest and Damian’s heart feels like it’s shattering. _

—

There’s a bang. A yell. A cacophony of noise that beats at Damian’s skull. He rolls over and pain stabs through his side like a hot poker. His shoulders groan, arms pulled taut behind him, and he can’t push himself up, can’t get a grip on the ground, can’t figure out which way is left or right or up or down. All he an do is lie there and hope those noises herald rescue instead of damnation.

The world drifts, ebbing and rising like waves on a beach. In and out. In and out. In and out. In.

Out.

—

“Shh,” someone is murmuring, “You’re okay, I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Damian tries to shift, tries to burrow further into the arms around him like he can burrow right out of his body. His side screams and he gasps. The arms around him tighten. He realises, belatedly, that his own arms are unrestrained.

“Drake?” Damian mumbles. But he passes out again before he can peel leaden eyelids open to check.

—

The world is rocking. Tilting and whirling like he’s on one of those theme park rides Richard loves. The ones that are big and fast, and spin and flip so much Damian feels like his organs have turned into mush.

Just when Damian thinks he’s going to throw up, the movement stops. There’s smooth leather beneath his him and the whine of a seatbelt as it’s pulled over him. He cracks his eyes open, blinking sluggishly, and a worried frown swims into focus. Black mask and floppy hair and lips that look wrong twisted into that frown.  _ Richard _ .

“Hey,” his brother says when he sees that Damian is conscious. A calloused thumb brushes across Damian’s cheek. “You’re safe now, kiddo, we took care of the kidnappers. Alfred’s waiting at home with some medicine to make you feel better.”

Richard leans back, out of the car, and Damian reaches up and grabs his wrist. “Drake-“

“Tim’s fine,” Richard says. He squeezes Damian’s hand, tucks it back against his chest. “He’s with Cass. They’re going to wait for Gordon.”

Damian deflates. Drake is okay. They’re both okay.

The passenger door of the Batmobile slams shut. Damian leans his head against the window and closes his eyes against the blurring cityscape as the car carries him home.

—

Damian hears his father before he sees him. It’s such a turnabout from normal that he almost giggles. With the pain medication Pennyworth forced upon him dulling the fire in his side, the fever is free to make him loopy without the distraction of pain grounding him. He hopes the antibiotics pumping through his veins will start working soon.

After the tread of footsteps across the cave, and the brief murmuring of voices, the chair beside the hospital bed squeaks slightly. That’s when Damian opens his eyes, forcing them to focus on the angled face haloed by the LEDs lighting the bench behind it.

“You’re okay?” Father asks, and it’s strange that it’s a question instead of a statement but Damian isn’t sure exactly why. Everything is still much more fuzzy than it should be.

“Yes,” he replies, even though he knows Father is just going to ask Pennyworth the same question because he doesn’t trust his children to be honest about the extent of their injuries. Damian doesn’t begrudge him that; he wouldn’t take Father’s word for it if he said he was fine either.

Pennyworth must have gone back upstairs because the Cave beyond the medical bay is silent. Only the faint rustle of the bats above and an even fainter hum of machinery reach Damian’s ears beneath the steady sound of his father’s breathing beside him. He has the sudden, childish urge to reach out for a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers instead. 

That makes his father frown. “It’s not your fault, Damian.”

It is though. “If I wasn’t sick, I could have fought them off,” he insists.

“No,” Father says firmly. “It’s better that you didn’t.”

They have to protect their secret identities, Damian knows that, but he still feels guilty. He could have at least run if he hadn’t been weakened by an infected wound. Or bought enough time for Drake to run. 

A memory peeks through the fog clouding his thoughts. Drake shoving his elbow into a man’s side, yelling at Damian to run. But he hadn’t. He’d been frozen, thoughts sluggish, too slow to do anything before a bag had been forced over his head. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the to go thoughts away. But they don’t. They poke and prod, reminding him of his failure. 

Father leans forward and kisses the top of Damian’s head. “Get some rest,” he says quietly. Then he leaves and the silence of the cave rings in Damian’s ears. 

—

He can’t stop shivering. The blanket he’d fallen asleep under is still tucked up around his neck, thick and heavy, yet Damian feels like he’s been left exposed in the desert overnight. He curls up further. Straightens immediately with a stuttering gasp when the movement jostles his side. He can’t get warm and he can’t get comfortable and it’s probably just the fever but Damian feels like crying from it all. 

A cupboard door banging shut alerts Damian to the fact that he’s not alone a second before another blanket is shaken out above him. It brings a tiny bit more warmth when it settles over him. Damian cranes his head to see who gave it to him and is surprised to find Drake leaning over him.

“You’re here,” Damian mumbles. He reaches out, feel the solidness of Drake’s arm through the blankets, assuring himself it’s not a dream. Richard said Drake was okay but he’d been gone for so long…

But it hadn’t been that long, had it? The digital clock across the room winks at him. It’s only five-thirty p.m.

“Um, yeah,” Drake says. He rubs the back of his neck. “Alfred said you were asleep but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am,” Damian says. 

“Good. That’s good.”

Silence falls. Damian closes his eyes, shifting to try find a position that is comfortable. He wants to tell Drake to stay, that he doesn’t want to be alone down here, but he swallows the words before they can slip out. Drake probably has better things to be doing.

Drake clears his throat. “I also… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says, “I said I’d get you out of there but I couldn’t.”

Damian opens his eyes again, squinting up at his brother. “It’s alright.” 

The frown creasing Drake’s brow doesn’t disappear though. He exhales, not quite a sigh, glancing away before looking back at Damian. “Do you need anything else?” he asks.

Damian opens his mouth to say no, then pauses. His arms prickle with goosebumps. He bites his lip, thinking slowly, before admitting, “I’m still cold.”

“I think Alfred has heating pads around here somewhere…”

“Actually,” Damian blurts before he can talk himself out of it, “studies show that body heat is more effective.”

“Oh.” Drake bites his cheek as he considers it. “If you’re sure…”

The bed is not designed to fit two people, but it is designed to fit people as big as Father and Todd, so after a bit of awkward coordinating, Damian and Drake are able to lie comfortably. It’s not quite a Richard Grayson hug, but it is warm. Damian relaxes.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Damian replies. He’s warm and he’s safe and he’s not alone. “Much better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com%22).


End file.
